


One Day

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [8]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, One Shot, i guess, young Jerome and Jeremiah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 03:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: "On my tenth birthday he held a cake knife to my throat. A few weeks later he lit my bed on fire. It was like living in a nightmare."





	One Day

_On my tenth birthday he held a cake knife to my throat._

Above Jeremiah’s bed hung a calendar. It was small, had been very cheap - yet he’d barely had enough with the change he’d picked from the ground - and each month there were pictures. Each month a different picture. Jeremiah enjoyed looking at them because they were nice pictures. Once there had been a cat, one with a cute pink nose and orange, soft looking fur and it had reminded Jeremiah of his own head of hair. Had life been different, he’d bothered asking for one, one just like the one on his calendar. 

They couldn’t own one, Jeremiah knew that. They were always on the move. One city after another every week or so wasn’t the life for a cat, or any pet for that matter. Though he figured he couldn’t have one even if they had a normal house, one that didn’t move, and a normal, permanent backyard with trees, grass and perhaps a swing - he’d always wanted a swing. There wasn’t any pet that would be safe within the reach of his older brother Jerome. Jeremiah didn’t want to think about the horrible things he might do to the poor animal when he wasn’t looking. Perhaps he’d save money for a stuffed cat next, one Jerome could never hurt. 

Another month there had been a picture of exotic trees on presumably some far away island out on the ocean, bathing in the orange and purple colours of the sunset. The sky consisted of a myriad of beautiful colours, looking unlike any sky he’d ever seen during sunset and he could almost feel the warmth through the flimsy paper. How he’d love to visit a place like that sometime. Sit in the sand, feel the sun on his skin, hear the song of tropical, colourful birds and just relax, alone and far, far away from the noise and structured chaos of the circus. Far away from Jerome.

This month, their birthday month, the calendar showed some flowers. He’d sat on his bed, flipping it over to the right month, and he’d sat there for a moment to look at the picture. They were nice flowers. Flowers in all the colours of the rainbow were scattered across a big field, bathing in the sunlight. Jeremiah had seen big fields like this one before, out of the window as they traveled, but never any with flowers like these. He’d seen yellow flowers, many of them in fact, and he’d seen some purple ones, and he picked them when he got the chance, but he’d never seen ones like these. They were almost otherworldly, taken straight out of a fantasy book Jeremiah wanted oh-so-much, but couldn’t afford.   
Were these flowers people kept in their gardens, he wondered, having never seen them out on the road. Had life been different, perhaps they’d had a garden with these pretty flowers in them, as well as a swing and a cat relaxing in the soft green grass. 

Life here could never be like that, could it? Jeremiah had learned to accept that, but he could always dream.

He counted the days, finger tapping each of the numbered squares until he reached their birthday. Reaching into his pocket he found the small pencil he kept safe in there - too small to hold comfortably in his hand, but it was better than nothing, no matter how small. Pencil clutched in hand, he drew a little cake in the square holding the day of their birthday. He drew one with three layers, filling them in one by one - with chocolate, sweet tasting frosting and sprinkles of all colours, just like the flowers - and finishing it off with a candle. Once he was pleased with the drawing he went to cross out the first day of the month, even though it wasn’t over just yet - it had barely started really. Counting the remaining days, skipping past the first one, he hung it back up, put his pencil back in his pocket and out the door he went.

One by one the days went by, a bit slow for Jeremiah’s liking. The sun never seemed to set, nor rise. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days. He felt like he’d be stuck at nine forever, never getting the chance to cross out the last square, never growing any taller, surpassing his twin - they’d been the same height for as long as he could remember - and never experiencing the life of adulthood. On the other hand, adulthood didn’t seem all that fun, what with all the alcohol, the hard work, the emotions - mostly anger by the looks of it. Perhaps being nine wasn’t that bad after all. 

The special day was getting closer and closer, inching closer at a snail’s pace. And then, one week finally became six days, which then became five, four, three, two-. 

"What’s that?"

Jeremiah was seated on his bed again, filling out today’s square with a big x as a finger entered his line of sight, hovering over the square that held the cake, the imaginary cake. Jeremiah doubted he’d experience a cake like that one, perhaps not any at all.   
His brother had taken a seat on his bed as well. His feet were on the bed, shoes on unlike himself. Jeremiah could see some smudges of who knows what on his sheets already, but ignored them for now, resuming his drawing of the big x. He dragged the lines out to the corners, running the pencil over the lines several times to thicken them. 

"A cake," he stated as a matter of fact, eyes not leaving the now very prominent, dark x in front of him. "It’s our birthday tomorrow," he continued. The finger disappeared and there was the sound of shuffling beside him, followed by the sound of feet hitting the floor. Footsteps were then heard, few and quick, followed by the door leading out of their room, if one could call it that, opening and closing. Jeremiah was alone once again and finally he pulled his pencil away from the paper, hung the calendar up again and put his pencil away. Once again he counted the days. 

One day. Tomorrow was the big day, his big day. Their big day, though, knowing his brother, perhaps it was more just his big day, just Jeremiah’s. To Jerome, this special day was just another day. Another day of work, bickering with their mother and another opportunity to target practice with rocks and circus guests - then followed by more than just bickering. Anything of sentimental value was beyond him. Sentimental, what’s that, his brother would probably ask, tone confused and words uttered like Jeremiah had just spoken to him in some sort of alien language. 

The big day rolled by, once again at what seemed like a snail’s pace. It started like any other day. By the time Jeremiah had woken up, earlier than usual, Jerome was nowhere to be seen. Jeremiah wasn’t worried, considering Jerome always got up early to go work, as well as the fact that he honestly couldn’t care less if he tried. As long as Jerome was far away from him with those rocks, sticks, mud or whatever it might be today, as well as that taunting laughter that sent shivers down his spine and made his knees weak, he was happy. He appreciated the time Jerome was occupied elsewhere. 

Because Jerome scared him. He scared others too. With his almost maniacal laughter and his taunting grins. Jeremiah drew mazes in the mud with sticks, feet planted on the dry part of the ground, while Jerome stepped in it. He dug through the mud with his bare hands, sometimes finding worms if it had just rained, which he proceeded to shove into Jeremiah’s face. "Look. It’s as long as my hand," he’d say, voice loud, hands covered in mud and stains everywhere on his shirt, pants, face. Jeremiah would turn his face away. Jerome was gross, loud, unsophisticated and improper. Jeremiah didn’t like him. Why couldn’t he just be more like Jeremiah? Why couldn’t he sit and count rocks outside, practicing math, or read newspapers and not sit outside in the mud like some primitive, psychotic caveman? 

By lunchtime this day was still just like any other day. He’d gotten some breakfast, bread with some cheese and some, ever so slightly sour, milk, sitting alone in the trailer. He’d read the magazine on the table. It wasn’t a book, his favourite reading material, but it had been good enough. He could read much faster now, no longer stumbling over many of the longer words. Afterwards he’d proceeded to sit and do nothing. There wasn’t much to do, this particular day being one of the less busy days. There was no big show tonight, he wasn’t needed in any of the food booths, nor anywhere else it seemed like. Perhaps he’d go outside and wait. 

Wait for what? 

Jeremiah didn’t know the answer to that. Would he be waiting for cake? Would there be a cake? One with chocolate, a thick coat of frosting, sprinkles spelling out his name and candles, a whole ten of them? Jeremiah hadn’t heard any talk of any cake. Would he be waiting for someone to congratulate him? He turned ten today after all, a decade. Maybe he already was ten. Who would be congratulating him? Perhaps Mr. Cicero, maybe his mother, anyone else in the circus, perhaps not anyone at all. Or would he just be waiting for the sun to set and the next day to roll by so he could start counting down the days until he turned eleven?   
There’s a strange feeling in his chest. 

Disappointment. 

He’d learned the word a few weeks ago. It was a long word. He’d seen it in one of his mother’s magazines. He’d heard it uttered from his mother’s lips several times. He knew what it meant and he recognised it. It wasn’t a good feeling. It clung to him like the sweat after a long, too warm day of work and many - too many - people, refusing to go away no matter how much he pulled at his shirt or fanned himself with his hands. It was uncomfortable and he wanted it to go away. His chest felt too tight and his vision was getting blurry. And why was that? Because this was some special, one of a kind day that happened to be the same day he’d been born on ten years ago, and no one but him seemed to bother to care? His brother, born on the exact same day, didn’t care, did he? Though on the other hand, Jerome didn’t care about very much at all.

There were sounds from outside and Jeremiah straightened in his seat, eyes on the door. He watched as the handle moved every so slightly and he got out of his seat, ready to slip right past his mother as soon as she opened the door, eyes on the floor and mouth shut, getting out of her way and leaving her to whatever she was drinking this time and whoever she had with her. He tucked the newspaper he found on the table, along with the magazine he’d been reading in earlier, under his arm and watched as the door now opened. 

Jeremiah froze. It wasn’t his mother, nor any of her boyfriends. It was his brother. As soon as their eyes met, the smile on Jerome’s face grew uncomfortably big. Jeremiah wanted to run. He wanted to run away from that big, creepy smile of his big bad brother, and the urge didn’t exactly decrease at the sight of what Jerome held in his hand. 

There was a knife in Jerome’s hand. The sun still not at it’s highest filled the room with sunlight and the blade of the knife in his brother’s right hand glistened. It was covered in something. A short wave of panic ran through him. Blood? No, whatever covered the knife was brown, not blood red. Mud then? His heart was racing in his chest, completely taking over the uncomfortable feeling of disappointment, which didn’t seem all that uncomfortable compared to what he felt now. His hands were clammy and the newspaper almost refused to let go as he dropped everything on the floor. His body, mind and entire being told him to run, push Jerome to the side and run, before he could get him. Jerome had finally lost it. He was going to kill him, murder him, stab him. 

He couldn’t move. His feet refused. He could only stare wide-eyed and breathless as Jerome stepped inside, leaving the door open. The hand with the knife was raised, the edge of it pointed right at Jeremiah and it seemed impossible to tear his eyes off of it. 

"I have something for you." His brother moved closer. Jeremiah, his body finally coming to it’s senses, moved away. For every step Jerome took, Jeremiah took two. He had to run. He had to run right now. His brother was going to kill him. Was this his idea of some sick birthday present? Jerome really was a psycho. Their uncle was right, their mother was right, everyone was right. One day, the sticks he used to poke dead squirrels by the road with, would turn into knives and the rocks he threw from up in the trees as people went by, would become bullets. One day was all it took.  
This day was that one day. 

Jeremiah screamed. He screamed and ran, right past his brother and right out the door. His brother had just tried to kill him. He’d almost put a knife to his throat and killed him. 

He didn’t see Jerome for the rest of that day, and when he did see him, there was hue of blue around one of his eyes and something odd about the now almost careful way he moved around.

_A few weeks later he lit my bed on fire._

Weeks passed and the blue hue on Jerome’s face was gone. That is, from what Jeremiah had seen. He hadn’t seen Jerome that much in a while now, not since the... incident. Like always he woke up early, gone by the time Jeremiah woke up, and he continued to be so until far into the evening and Jeremiah was seated on his bed, a new square crossed out and some sort of reading material in his hands. He’d enter their little, very little, room and no words would be spoken, not a glance would be cast and the two went straight to bed, backs to each other. Jeremiah’s days were spent alone, alone being there was no Jerome around that is, but it was good enough for Jeremiah. He could deal with the biggest of crowds if it meant Jerome wasn’t a part of that crowd. 

Jerome seemed to never be seen. The branch high up in the tree Jeremiah sat and drew mazes or read under, was empty. Never did a single rock come flying, knocking his pencil out of his hand or the glasses off his head. After a rainy day when Jeremiah drew in the mud with yet another stick he’d found somewhere, he was alone. Never was he met with the sight of a muddy, wriggly worm and the dirty face of his brother. He was left alone. He liked that. Being alone. No Jerome. Just peace and quiet, as much as he could get of it at the circus. He could get used to this. 

But, good things don’t last forever. Slowly but surely his brother seemed to creep back into Jeremiah’s life. Soon enough, too soon, Jerome would start coming home earlier and earlier. Sometimes, he’d enter their room before the sun had even set. He’d sit on his own bed and do nothing but stare. It creeped Jeremiah out and sent a feeling of paranoia through him. Did he have a knife on him? Or worse, a gun? Had whatever uncle Zack, whom their mother had sent to take care of Jerome after the incident, had done to him not been good enough? Had it left a feeling of revenge behind among the bruises, rather than terror? Was he going to try again? If so, when? 

Jerome would sit in the tree sometimes and Jeremiah would move to sit somewhere else, far away from his brother. He’d begin playing out in the mud again after it had rained. Though nothing was shoved into Jeremiah’s face these times, nothing but the images of his brother pulling out a worm from the mud and then proceeding to pull at both ends, seemingly to see how far it would stretch before it tore in half. Jeremiah refused to look at him while he did so anymore after that. 

He had to get rid of him again. Before he got closer. Before that worm was him. 

Their mother smoked. If she didn’t drink, she smoked. The smell of smoke hit his nostrils as soon as she got near and he held his breath every time. It smelt bad. He could feel the smoke in his lungs and it wasn’t a good feeling. How she did it on purpose, he didn’t know. 

On her, she kept a lighter. He’d seen her pull it out of her pocket plenty of times before, light one of her cigarettes that she pulled out as well and he’d watched the smoke escape her lips and then fade into thin air. Sometimes though, she forgot it. Perhaps she’d had a bit too much, more than usual, of her drinks and she’d left it on the table. He’d held it sometimes, for a brief moment so he could get the newspaper it had been on top of, but he’d never tried it, summoned the flame with one swift movement of his thumb and watched the flame burn. 

Not until today, or should he say, tonight.

The flame was warm and it barely moved at all where he stood in his and Jerome’s room, right in front of his bed. His gaze left the flame for a moment to glance back at the boy in the bed behind him, still very much asleep just like last time he’d checked. He blinked and in his field of vision is almost an imprint of the flame. It faded after a while and he turned back to his own bed. 

Letting the flame disappear, he moved to pull the blankets away, exposing the mattress. He wouldn’t miss it. It was soft, softer than the ground he sometimes resorted to if their mother took the trailer for herself, though the feeling of the springs in the mattress was too overwhelming. If he slept too far towards the right, he’d feel one digging into his back and he’d never be able to fall asleep.   
Jerome’s mattress didn’t feel as springy, he’d concluded a few days earlier while Jerome had been busy with the elephants. It wasn’t as soft as his own, but it’d do. 

One swift movement of his thumb and he chucked the lighter onto his bed. It took a moment to catch on fire, but soon enough the fabric began to burn. The flame grew and grew and Jeremiah watched. He breathed in the familiar scent of smoke, though this one smelt a little different, and he watched as the flame spread. His blanket, his pillow, his calendar hanging just above his bed. All of it burned. He allowed himself to watch, but ran as soon as it spread to the curtain just by his bed, separating his side of their small room from Jerome’s side. The rest he watched unfold from outside the trailer, eyes glossy and body wrapped in the arms of his mother. 

He didn’t see Jerome days after that. Jerome’s bed was his now and Jerome was left to sleep on the couch. 

__

_It was like living in a nightmare._

One night had been unlike any other. He’d been sleeping in his new bed, wrapped up in his new blankets, head resting on his new pillow and body curled up in the warmth when all of the sudden, he’d heard the sound of the door. The handle turned and the door opened slowly. Jeremiah’s heart had been in his throat. Jerome was coming for him while he was sleeping. He’d managed to grab one of the kitchen knives their mother had placed on top of the counter above the sink, far away from any of the twins’ reach, and now he was coming for him. 

Jeremiah clutched the blankets tightly in his hands, eyes searching the room for anything to protect himself with. It was dark and without it glasses it was difficult to see anything. He debated on screaming, waking someone who could help, take Jerome away from him. He didn’t get the chance to as the door opened further, revealing to Jeremiah’s relief their uncle Zack, not Jerome yielding a knife. He let out a shaky sigh and proceeded to sit up in his bed, hand reaching for his glasses. 

A tired, very confused Jeremiah got ushered out of the room. A jacket was handed to him as well as his shoes and he hurried to put them on. Uncle Zack hushed quietly at him as he accidentally knocked into the door while pulling the second shoe on. The two stood in silence for a moment. Jeremiah couldn’t hear anything other than Jerome’s heavy breathing from the couch where he was still sleeping, blanket covering his unmoving body that was barely visible in the dark trailer. If it hadn’t been for what Jeremiah assumed was uncle Zack’s flashlight seated on the table, pointing at the door leading into their - his - room, the room would have been pitch dark. 

Uncle Zack waited by the door, the one leading out of the trailer, and Jeremiah couldn’t help but eye him with a confused expression on his face. Where were they going? Tucked under the man’s arm was a bag, one Jeremiah recognised as his mother’s, but his mother was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t seen her since she kissed him goodnight earlier in the evening. 

Casting one last look at his brother’s sleeping form, memorising the rise and fall of his body as he breathed, the calm, peaceful expression on his face and the way he clutched the blankets close to himself, he walked past their uncle. The man shut the door quietly behind them and proceeded to lead Jeremiah further and further away from the trailer, all the tents and the circus. 

He didn’t see Jerome the next fifteen years.


End file.
